Chapter 46: Becky's Way T2
The apartment was quiet, a different kind of quiet than when April was home. This was a suspended, charged silence, broken only by the slow crackle of a new log settling in the fireplace. Grant stood at the mantel, a glass of water in hand, wearing only a dark blue robe tied loosely at his waist. The fabric gaped when he moved, revealing the stark line of his hip, the shadowed trail of hair leading downward.
Becky watched him from the center of the plush rug, feeling the soft pile between her toes. She wore the robe he’d altered for her weeks ago—a silky, peach-colored thing he’d taken scissors to, so that now it was more suggestion than garment. Standing still, it barely covered her breasts and the swell of her hips. A deep breath, a shift of weight, and it would fall open, revealing everything. She felt the slide of the silk against her nipples, a constant, teasing reminder of its purpose.
“You’re thinking loud enough to hear,” Grant said, not turning from the fire. His voice was a low vibration in the quiet room.
“Am not,” she countered, adopting a wide-eyed, innocent tone. She padded toward him, the robe swaying, the side slit revealing the entire length of her leg with each step. “I’m just… appreciating the ambiance. And the view.”
He turned then, his blue eyes sweeping over her. They didn’t devour; they assessed, reading the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers plucked at the silky belt. “You want something,” he stated.
“I always want something.” She gave him a playful smile, tilting her head. “Your attention, for starters.” She reached out and traced the embroidered pattern on the lapel of his robe. “But tonight it’s… I don’t know. It feels different. I want to…” She paused, searching for the words. “I want to fuck you.” The crude word in her soft voice was deliberate, a provocation and a confession.
Grant’s gaze sharpened. He caught her wandering hand, holding it still. “There it is,” he murmured, more to himself. “A different frequency.” He studied her face—the slight frown between her brows, the eager yet uncertain set of her mouth. “You’re usually a live wire, Becky. All external spark. Tonight, it’s coming from somewhere deeper. You’re… grounded in the want.”
His perception unnerved her. It was like he’d seen the vague, formless feeling she couldn’t name. She deflected with performance, batting her lashes. “Maybe I just really, really like you.” She pressed herself against him, feeling the hard plane of his chest through the thin silk, the telltale rigidity already growing beneath his robe. “See? You inspire me.”
He didn’t smile. His expression was serious, intent. “Okay,” he said, simply.
“Okay?” she echoed.
“Tonight, you’re going to get exactly what you want.” He released her hand and took a deliberate step back, giving her space. “Because tonight, you lead.”
A jolt of pure, undiluted anxiety shot through her. Lead? She was the muse, the catalyst, the recipient of attention. Leading implied responsibility, a map she didn’t have. “I… I don’t know how to lead you,” she admitted, the faux innocence bleeding into real vulnerability.
“Yes, you do.” His voice was calm, an anchor. “You just do what you feel. Move how you want to move. Take what you want to take. I’m not a puzzle to solve, Becky. I’m just me. And I want to know.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “I have my theories. Systems. Ideas about angles, pressure, rhythm—what should work best for your body. I want to see if my map matches your territory. Show me how you want to be fucked.”
The challenge, framed as an experiment, ignited something in her. The nervousness didn’t vanish, but it fused with a surge of possessive curiosity. Show him.
She started with a deep, centering breath that made the robe fall open, the cool air and the fire’s heat meeting on her bare skin. She closed the distance between them and, without breaking eye contact, untied the belt of his robe. It fell open. She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor behind him. Her hands went to his chest, skating over the warm skin, mapping the muscle she now knew so well. This time, it wasn’t exploration for its own sake. It was a claiming. She leaned in and bit his lower lip, not hard, but with a possessive pressure that made him groan into her mouth.
Her kiss was all-consuming, a messy, passionate collision of tongue and teeth. She poured her chaotic energy into it, her hands gripping his hair, her body writhing against his. She broke away, gasping, and dropped to her knees.
The fireplace light danced over the planes of his abdomen. She nuzzled the coarse hair, inhaling his clean, soap-and-skin scent. She took his length in hand, not with tentative curiosity, but with a firm, knowing grip. She looked up at him, her olive eyes gleaming. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” she whispered, a promise and a declaration, before taking him fully into her mouth.
She didn’t attempt technical perfection. She pursued sensation. Loud, wet, sloppy sensation. She used her hands as much as her mouth, stroking in counter-rhythm, cupping and rolling his balls. She moaned around him, the vibrations deliberate, reveling in the immediate feedback—the jerk of his hips, the sharp intake of breath above her. She pulled off with a gasp, laughing breathlessly. “You taste so good,” she announced, her voice husky, before diving back down. She varied her pace wildly, fast and hungry one moment, slow and torturous the next, following the spontaneous impulses that fired through her. She was entirely in the moment, a creature of pure sensory feedback, and her enjoyment was palpable, infectious.
When his hands tangled in her hair, not to guide but to hold on, she felt a thrill of power. She pulled away, her lips slick and swollen, and got to her feet. “My turn,” she said, her voice vibrant with excitement. She took his hands and placed them on the tie of her robe. “But you do the honors.”
He tugged the belt, and the altered silk sighed open, sliding down her arms to puddle at her feet. She stood utterly naked before him, the firelight gilding her skin. “Touch me,” she commanded, but it was a breathless plea. “Everywhere. But I’m still in charge.”
Grant’s hands were like live wires on her skin. He started at her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tension there, kneading down her arms. His touch was worshipful but thorough, as if memorizing her responses anew. When his mouth found her breasts, he didn’t just suckle; he laved and teased each peak until she was arching her back, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders. He kissed down her stomach, his stubble a delicious abrasion, and when he dropped to his own knees before her, his eyes sought hers for permission she’d already granted.
His tongue on her was an event. It wasn’t the systematic, focused pattern he’d used before. This time, he mirrored her spontaneous energy—broad, flat strokes followed by pinpoint flicks, deep probes with his tongue followed by gentle suction. He read her body’s immediate language, the jerks and gasps and moans, and adapted on the fly. He added first one finger, then two, curling them inside her, finding a rhythm that made her cry out. She looked down, watching his head between her thighs, and the visual, combined with the relentless sensation, sent her over the edge suddenly, violently. Her knees buckled. He held her up, his mouth relentless, drinking her in as she shuddered and chanted his name.
When she could breathe again, she tugged his hair, pulling him up. “Now,” she panted, her eyes blazing. “I want you inside me. Here.” She pointed to the rug.
He laid back as she directed. Becky straddled his hips, holding him steady. She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate, breathtaking slide. The fullness was exquisite, a perfect stretch that made her head fall back. “Oh, God,” she breathed, settling fully, taking a moment to just feel him buried to the hilt.
Then she began to move. This was not a rhythmic ride. It was an improvisation. She rolled her hips in wide, grinding circles, savoring the deep internal friction. She rose up until he was almost out, then plunged back down with a gasp. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, changing the angle, her breasts swaying. She sat up straight, arching her back, finding a spot that made her see stars, and chased it with short, frantic bounces. She talked, a stream of consciousness poured into his ear. “Yes… right there… you fill me up so perfectly… feel how wet you make me… do you like watching me take you? Do you?”
Grant’s hands gripped her hips, not steering, just feeling the motion, his eyes dark with a mixture of intense pleasure and profound observation. His breathing grew ragged. “This,” he gritted out. “This angle, when you lean back… you’re targeting your own anterior fornix. It’s deeper. You found it instinctively.”
His clinical words, spoken in a voice rough with lust, drove her wild. She leaned back, bracing her hands behind her on his thighs, presenting herself, taking him even deeper in this new angle. She rode him like that, mastering the leverage, her body a symphony of needy, responsive motion. The build was slower this time, a crescendo built from a thousand fleeting sensations. When her orgasm hit, it was a rolling wave that clenched around him, pulling a hoarse shout from his throat as he held himself still, letting her milk it from every drop of sensation.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, spent and slick with sweat. But the energy in her wasn’t spent. It was transforming. After a moment of panting into his neck, she lifted her head. “Bedroom,” she said.
They stumbled down the short hallway, a tangle of limbs and hungry kisses. She pushed him onto the unmade bed, the sheets still smelling of them from the previous night. “On your hands and knees,” she instructed, her voice holding a new, confident edge.
He complied, a powerful silhouette in the dim light from the hallway. Becky positioned herself behind him. This was new. A reversal. She guided him into her from behind, her hands clutching his hips. The penetration was deep, urgent. She set a relentless, driving pace, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. Her hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles coil and release with each of her thrusts. She leaned over him, pressing her breasts to his sweat-slicked back, her mouth near his ear. “You feel amazing,” she whispered, then bit his shoulder. Her movements became less controlled, more frantic, a pure expression of building need. She was chasing another peak, quickly, desperately, using his body for her pleasure in the most visceral way. Her climax was a sharp, surprised cry, a convulsive tightening that left her trembling, her forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.
Before either could recover, she slid out from under him and pulled him onto his back. She was everywhere, her energy boundless. She straddled his face, lowering herself onto his mouth. “My turn again,” she gasped, and he welcomed her, his hands gripping her thighs as he licked and sucked her through another, softer, more drawn-out orgasm that left her weak and shaking.
She tumbled off, lying beside him, both of them breathing like they’d run a race. The silence was full of electricity and sweat. Becky’s mind was finally quiet, a first. The performing, the thinking, the analyzing—it had all been burned away in the physical furnace of her own leading.
Grant turned his head on the pillow. In the half-light, his eyes were soft. “So?” he asked, his voice raw.
A slow, sated smile spread across Becky’s face. It wasn’t her usual brilliant,表演性 smile. It was quieter, deeper, real. “Your map,” she said, reaching out to trace his lips. “It’s pretty damn accurate.” She nestled into the crook of his arm. “But I like my way better.”
He pulled her closer, his kiss a gentle seal on the experiment. The last of the strange, un-nameable feeling inside her settled, not into an answer, but into a peaceful, embodied knowing. She had shown him. And he had seen all of it.